


Untitled

by FrankieFandom



Series: Beyond Repair [1]
Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Character Death, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankieFandom/pseuds/FrankieFandom
Summary: This was never supposed to happen.





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> In 5.18 Casey discovered a crack house and helped to rescue a girl. This idea stemmed from the aftermath of that since the dealers escaped. Like the majority of things I write now there is no Dawson, not sure if she was ever in this universe but for the sake of this story it doesn’t matter, and Shay never died. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who put up with all my sobbing and wailing whilst I transferred this story from my head and onto paper. And thank you for all your help. You know who you are. And I hope I am forgiven for not being able to save him.

_“Kelly.”_

_The tone of the voice was foreboding. Severide felt like he had been waiting for this call for months._

_“They found him.”_

_Despite the inevitability of it all Severide’s heart couldn’t help but skip a beat._

_“Detroit. They need someone to come and identify the body.”_

_Severide looked out the window. It was sunny, the birds were singing. It didn’t seem right at all._

_“Kelly?”_

_“Send me the address.”_

It all started two years ago.

One day Casey left the apartment he shared with Severide and went for a run. He’d left early, before Severide was even awake. Leaving him a note, telling him he’d see him at the firehouse.

Casey didn't turn up for his shift.

Of course Severide had been concerned but nothing seemed out of the ordinary and no-one suspected anything. Not until Severide was called into Chief Boden's office thirty minutes after Casey should have arrived. It was a ransom video that they would later discover was sent to 51 by the drug dealers that Casey had become involved with over the course of a few shifts. In the end everything seemed to have turned out well. The girl had been rescued and returned to her frantic parents and no-one had been hurt. Except that wasn't the end of it all.

“Show me,” Severide demanded.

“PD are on their way.” It was Boden’s way of telling him that he didn’t want to see this.

Severide merely shook his head in defiance. “Show me.”

Boden couldn’t watch a second time. He looked away. Severide would never forget what he saw.

Casey had been stripped of all his clothing. Arms and legs bound to a chair. Gagged. He was being beaten over and over. Hit with such force that the chair was moving, scraping along the floor. A voice behind the camera was making a ransom demand. Giving out instructions for what to do. Eventually Casey just fell forward in the chair, blood dripping from his face and head.

The film went dark and fuzzy but the sound was still there.

They heard grunts and moans.

Then thuds.

Muffled words.

“Get me that baseball bat.”

Then sounds of a struggle.

Followed by screaming.

Then silence.

It took three days to find Casey. Three days. Three days of desperation and two more gut wrenching videos. Video number two was more beating. More blood. The gag was gone but he was making less noise now. Barely able to keep his own head up. His face covered in cuts. One eye almost swollen shut. His neck was bruised. Hair matted with dried blood. The rest of his body covered with wounds and marks. Fresh blood ran from his nose and mouth. In the final video Casey was almost unresponsive.  
  
The detectives on the case finally figured out where Casey was being held. They couldn’t risk giving in to the ransom demands in case they killed Casey and just disappeared. Ultimately he had suffered for that.

In the short term it hurt him and in the long term it killed him.

It killed him.

Of course Severide had gone with the team who went to recover Casey. The team had burst into the building. There was gunfire. Then eerie silence. A shout went up that Casey had been found.

Severide pushed through and rushed over to Casey’s bloodied and bruised body. Naked. He was slumped forwards on the chair. Hands tied roughly behind his back. Casey’s body fell limply onto Severide as someone cut through the restraints that had cut through his skin. Severide laid him down. Gently. Carefully.

“Matt?”

Nothing.

“Matty?”

Severide ran his hands gently over Casey's battered body. Trying to wake him.

“Come on Matt… I’m here… I’m here…”

Casey’s eyes opened half way. Unfocused. Unresponsive.

“Get the EMTs in here!”

Severide pulled off his own jacket and draped it over Casey. He tried to keep his attention. Tried to keep him awake.

Less than a minute later the paramedics were by his side.

They saw his dilated pupils.

Felt his sluggish pulse.

They both knew exactly what had happened before they even looked for the bruised marks in the crook of his elbow. The track marks that Severide was too distressed to notice.

One of the detectives tried to keep Severide out of the way while the paramedics got to work on Casey. After a grim glance shared between them they managed to stop Severide following and getting into the back of the ambulance.

They continued to examine Casey inside the vehicle. Out of everyone's way. They didn’t want prying eyes to see his injuries, to see the heavy bruising and scratch marks around his lower abdomen and on his buttocks. There was blood. Splinters. So much bruising. He had been brutalised in the worst possible way. They wanted to preserve at least some dignity, even if it meant Severide was left angrily demanding that he should go with him.

One of the detectives drove Severide to the hospital, following the ambulance. He was in no fit state to drive. He wasn't in a fit state to do anything.

Casey was examined. Cleaned up. Stitched. Put back together on the outside. His wounds were mostly superficial. He was lucky.

Lucky.

They’d called him lucky.

Casey went into heroin withdrawal after only six hours.

He shook violently. Called for Severide, not even knowing he was right there by him. He yelled in pain. He almost choked on vomit. Three times. He suffered two seizures on his third day of withdrawal. They gave him all that they could but it wasn’t enough. He was in pain from his injuries and he was a mess after such a toxic amount of heroin had been forced into his body.

He got through the worst of it. A doctor spoke to him. A counsellor spoke to him. He said nothing. The detective spoke to him. He answered the detectives questions in a voice that was barely the sound of a whisper. Told him how he’d been grabbed. Forced into a van. Confirmed that no one else had been involved except for the photos he was shown.

And that was that.

He spoke to Severide on the fourth day and finally on the fifth day he got to go home. He refused to stay there any longer. He left with a white paper bag of medication, follow up instructions and some pamphlets. One of them he screwed up and threw away before Severide ever got to see it, before he even left the hospital room.

Casey returned to active duty only two weeks after he was discharged from the hospital. Against the advice of the CFD medical board and against the advice of his chief. But he knew just what to say to convince them. To make them believe he was fine. He insisted he was over it all. But how could anyone ever be over that?

He'd been sitting around the apartment. Sore and in pain. Unfocused. Trapped. It felt like he didn’t exist anymore. Something inside him had broken. Snapped in two. There was a longing. This want and need. A craving that constantly gnawed at him. He would swallow the pills he’d been given. But that want hadn’t gone away. So he distracted himself with work, throwing himself back into his role at the firehouse with ease.

Severide had taken on the role of looking after Casey perfectly. Only Casey didn't want to be looked after. They had been friends with benefits long before they'd started renting an apartment together. There were exchanges of love but when Severide looked into Casey's eyes now he saw nothing of the person he had been. He assured Casey that what he had seen on the tapes, what Casey had gone through, didn't change a thing.

The situation had made Severide admit that what they had wasn't just sex. Casey had always been more than just sex. Severide loved him and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. In the months to come he would come to regret not telling Casey all this sooner.

Severide would live to regret waiting until this terrible act had occurred to tell him that he loved him.

One sleepless night Casey grabbed the electric trimmers and shaved off his blond hair. No one could grab it now. Severide had caught him in the act. He finished the job off for him. Everyone had been shocked at his new appearance but no one said anything. Everyone was trying to keep an eye on him but they knew what he was like so they didn’t push. Didn’t question him.

Two weeks after returning to work Casey was walking the streets. Searching. That longing need hadn't gone. It still ate at him. He had been fighting it since leaving the hospital. The doctor had even spoken to him about it when he had been there. And the counsellor. But it didn’t matter.

He knew it was wrong.

He knew it was dangerous.

He understood what was happening to him. But he couldn't stop it. He hadn’t the strength to fight the unbearable craving. He got what he needed and headed home, locking himself in his bedroom and carrying out the act that would soon become a ritual.

He needed this.

It worked.

He felt normal again after that short release and euphoria. It felt like he could breathe again.

But things weren't normal and Severide knew that. Casey was making any and every excuse to avoid sex. Even physical contact. He wasn't eating properly. He was dropping far too much weight. He wasn't sleeping. His moods were unstable. Mostly consumed by anger. He hit the drunken driver of a vehicle that had come off the road and killed a child. There were stern words from Boden. Concerned and worried words too. Then he was sent home to cool off. He hid away from everyone. He was ashamed but he was only able to hear the demands of his body. Listening to only the words in his head.

He pushed everyone away.

Even Severide.

He wore long sleeves in hot weather. Severide questioned him on it, worried about self-harm. But he just shrugged, smiled and said he was fine. Then he stopped wearing the long sleeves, finding other places to inject.

For three long months Casey managed to hide his new secret but Severide found his gear and a small stash. It was inevitable in the end. The look in Severide's eyes burned into Casey's memory. His whole world was about to come crashing down around him.

One night Casey overdosed and ended up in the ER again with Severide by his side. There was plenty of talk about rehab. Detoxing. Shrinks. Casey was given indefinite leave from the CFD. He would simply have been fired if not for his distinguished career and the circumstances that had caused his addiction.

The end of an era.

Casey spent six whole months in and out of rehab. Going through all the processes they had to free him from the grip of the drugs. Everything they could do was done. But he was never free of that inexorable burning. That absolute need for the euphoria of the high. And there was only one way he would ever get that.

Whenever he was out of rehab Severide tried to help as much as he could. He tried everything. Gave Casey space when he needed it. Took time off work. Used up his own furlough to keep a close eye on him. He even threatened him. With more rehab. With breakup. Tried to persuade him that he could get his job back. But none of it worked. Casey had changed. He’d spent Christmas Day with Severide. But he hadn’t been much company. He got high and left the apartment before Severide’s guest came over for the evening. He didn't care anymore. He was going through the motions but he was dead inside. He had nothing to lose. He couldn’t feel anything. He just wanted that euphoria.

Nothing else mattered.

As the months had worn on Casey spent less and less time in the apartment. And even less time attempting rehab. Sometimes he was gone for days at a time. Severide spent his downtime out searching for him. Sometimes he would find him and bring him home. Or take him back to the rehab facility. Sometimes he couldn't find Casey. He simply had to wait until he showed up on his own. He’d take him back to the rehab facility again and again but Casey would just leave sooner and sooner each time.

He’d given up on himself.

He’d lost his battle.

Ten months after he had been kidnapped Severide returned from shift to find Casey gone.

And not the usual gone.

He had packed up and left. He'd even scrawled a note.

‘I’m sorry. Don’t come after me.’

Casey left the city he’d grown up in. He hitchhiked his way out. He’d had to sell his truck. With no income he’d quickly gone through his savings. His habit was expensive. He needed the cash. He’d pawned most of his possessions. They were meaningless to him. He managed to pick up casual jobs on construction sites. It gave him a small income. He found a new dealer. He rented a small apartment. It was far worse than the first place he had when he was eighteen but it was a roof over his head, and a locked door for safety.

His attitude, his anger, his moods, all got the better of him. He was fired from jobs over and over. He lost the apartment. Lost the rest of his possessions. Save for the wallet he kept in his jeans pocket. His miniature halligan. And the small leather bound diary with his CFD badge tucked inside that he kept safely in the inside pocket of his worn out jacket. He had tried. Truly tried to find more work. Anything. But there was nothing. No one wanted him.

He had lost all his dignity but really he had lost that a long time ago. He washed as best he could in public bathrooms with a bar of soap and an old washcloth. He filled up an old plastic bottle with cold water to drink. There was no running water in the squats. No lights either. No heating. He fell asleep worried someone would try and take the only things he had left. Even more worried that Severide would find him. He didn’t want to be found.

He ran out of money.

He let his dealer fuck him for one high. He’d bitten his lips bloody to stop from crying out. It was harsh and brutal. But nothing he didn’t deserve.

That one high wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

He started to sell himself. He started to sell his body for money. He still had the looks even though he appeared worn out. He was still handsome. He had lost weight but he was still pleasing on the eye. For both men and women. With his startling oceanic eyes standing out against dark shadows, his beautiful lips and dazzling smile. His chiselled features and ruffled hair that seemed even blonder since it had grown back. Now longer than he’d ever worn it before.

He let them do whatever they wanted with his body. He didn’t resist. And he knew how to act. He learnt this role. He’d always been a quick learner. Most mornings he could hardly walk. Some mornings he couldn't even stand. But he'd force himself up. He'd go and search for his release. Try to reach that high. He chased it as Severide tried to chase after him.

Severide never did find Casey.

Not alive.

He’d filed a missing person’s report not long after Casey had left. He went out onto the streets of Chicago every day and night he wasn’t at the firehouse. For one fleeting moment he thought he had found Casey almost two months after he had disappeared.

“Matt!” he yelled, running full tilt towards a blond haired man.

But the smile fell from Severide's face the moment the man turned around. A disgruntled looking face stared back at him.

“Sorry. Wrong person.”

He patrolled the streets. Streets he never even knew existed. After another month he almost admitted defeat, realising Casey would more than likely have left Chicago. He left flyers and photos of Casey with every hospital and clinic. With all the homeless shelters. But no leads. Nothing. How the hell would he find him now?

Deep down Severide knew that if Casey didn’t want to be found then he’d never find him. But he also knew he would never stop looking for him. Never.

Life at Firehouse 51 had continued on almost as normal after Casey had left. Almost. Without him there was a heavy sense of loss. More so when it had been announced that he was missing. Everyone had seen the changes in him since his kidnapping. But no one really knew the seriousness of the situation. He had never recovered from what had happened. He needed some time. Some space. Of course Boden and Shay knew about the heroin. And the rehab. No one else did so they didn’t fully understand why he had ended up missing all those long months after he had left 51. Severide eventually had to tell them that Casey had packed up and gone. He hadn't wanted to. But with the flyers he was posting everywhere they would have figured it out anyway. Casey had always been a great leader and great role model at the firehouse. A great friend. Their lives would never be the same again without him.

The nights when Casey was selling himself for cash didn’t seem half so bad if he was already high. Severide hated to think what had become of him. And in his moments of clarity Casey hated think what Severide thought of him. He would slip a photo out of his diary and smile sadly down at it. Everyone was so happy back when it was taken. He hoped everyone had forgotten about him. He deserved to be forgotten about.

His wallet was stolen at gun point. His ID with it. He didn’t care. He’d been keeping what little cash he had in one of his shoes for some time now. Before he’d left Chicago he’d emptied out what little he had left in his bank account and closed it. He hadn’t wanted to be found. He hadn’t wanted to be traced after he’d gone. No paper trail.

Casey was reckless with himself. He would often get into kerb crawling cars with the most dubious looking people. He didn't care. He needed money. He needed his fix. More than once he ended up in some part of the city that he didn't know, walking for hours to find his way back. Staggering. People saw him and looked away. Ignored him. Ignored a man who had saved countless lives. Turned their noses up at him. Treated him like scum.

When he worked, he worked well. And he got his money. He did anything that was demanded of him. With anyone. It didn’t matter who they were. As long as they paid. He talked the talk. He walked the walk. He had no options. At first he had felt so incredibly dirty. Now it was just normal. It was funny how quickly this had all become the new normal. But not funny at all.

Casey would clean himself up. He would put on his best smile. He would lean into open car windows. Walk up to anyone who wandered past him on the sidewalk looking him over. He would stand alluringly against the wall. Waiting. Waiting for someone to take him. Most of the time he was high and had no inhibitions. No barriers. He would do anything for his next fix. He could barely remember his own name when he was high. He was nameless. Faceless. Just a shell.

“Hey... hey...” he would begin.

Eyes almost unfocused.

Voice soft.

Smile enticing.

“Looking for a good time? Promise it'll be worth it…”

Sometimes they'd take him into the warehouse. Sometimes into an alleyway. Other times into the nearest public bathroom. He demanded money up front. He wasn't messing around, even when he was high. He always did whatever was asked of him. Sometimes he would lose himself in the heat of the moment. Sometimes his head was clear and he was ashamed of what he had become. But mostly he didn't care. Some customers were embarrassed so he would do his best to make them feel more comfortable with what they were doing. That felt wrong. Why should he be comforting them?  
Some of them were rough with him. Wanting that turn on they got from inflicting pain and control. Some would knock him around just for the hell of it and the thrill it brought them. He had lost more than one back tooth that way. At times he was forced into committing sexual acts he had never strayed near before.

But it wasn't all bad.

There were shelters. There were good people along the way. People who had genuinely tried to help him. They’d give him food but he had no appetite. He’d not had an appetite for a very long time. The heroin burn was eating away at him from the inside. Burning him far more than any fire ever did. They tried to enrol him into rehab. He was too far gone. Severide was the only person he wanted to be with but he was too far out of reach. He kept a diary. He would spend nights in the shelter under the dim light writing to Severide in the rare moments his head was clear. Never with any intention of sending anything but he liked to talk to him. It made him feel almost human.

But his time in the shelter was limited. He couldn’t stay there every night. And he didn’t want to. He needed money. He needed his high. And for that he needed to be on the streets. He got into more than one fight. Fist fights over nothing. But for him they were over everything. Fights just to keep the few possessions he still had left. Fights to stop someone from not paying up. That happened a lot. Fights simply to protect himself. Fights to protect the streets he worked. To protect the few friends he had made along the way. They had to stick together for safety. His body had become a map of scars and various shades of bruises.

He had been stabbed with an inch long blade in his abdomen in the early hours of one morning. Someone hadn’t wanted to pay for his work. So they had followed him. They'd left him with his hands over the blood seeping through his clothing. Then they rifled through his things to take back their money. They also found the rest of the money he had earned that night. Casey had been high and hadn’t understood where the blood was coming from until late next morning.

He had been lucky. Lucky. That hadn’t been the first time that word had been used when really there was no luck at all.

The street volunteers had been out that day. A pair of them had seen him leaning heavily against a wall as he tried to move forwards a step at a time. He was still coming down. All his money was gone. He'd left his shoes, even his jacket with his few possessions, up by the old mattress and flattened boxes. He was fortunate no one had spotted such a good jacket and shoes or they wouldn't have been there when he’d returned. Most people on that floor of the warehouse were out of their minds on the drug of their choice.

The volunteers had taken him to the closest clinic where the wound was cleaned and stitched. It was superficial but had bled a lot. He'd only vaguely remember it all. He'd thought of Hallie as a doctor stitched his flesh. He had managed to get himself back to the warehouse squat. Even managed to work the following night. And he shot up too after he had given all his earnings and a blow job to his dealer. His hands had been shaking as he injected the drug. Then he spent a week fighting an infection. Dehydrated. Delirious.

Summer had quickly come and gone. Nights and days so hot you thought you'd die from heat exhaustion. Halloween and Thanksgiving passed Casey by. Soon it was Christmas and with it came sub-zero temperatures day and night for weeks on end.

One night before the big day Casey found himself sitting on the cold steps outside a church. Eyes closed. Just listening to a sweet voiced choir singing carols inside. A member of the congregation stopped by him, telling him to come in and get warm. But he didn't. He just got shakily to his feet and walked away.

Winter was hard. One abandoned warehouse nearby had gone up in flames towards the end of the harsh season. He stood outside and watched. Thankful for the heat. Transfixed watching the flames. The noise of the sirens made him feel sick with nostalgia. He almost wanted to run inside and help because he knew for a fact that there were homeless people in there. But the part of him that would once have been desperate to help was gone. It had died long ago.

The elements were as harsh and brutal to Casey as any person had ever been. He'd managed to get hold of winter clothes. He huddled up sore and tired in an ex-army greatcoat that had been given to him along with a pair of work boots from the Salvation Army. And gloves, a hat and scarf given to him by one of the street charities. He’d shaken his head, tried to say no but he had to accept. He was ice cold. He hated to rely on handouts. Always had. But sometimes he’d wake up to a fresh pair of thick socks, a pack of hand warmers, a hygiene kit.

Whenever Casey couldn't find his fix he would be forced to go to the shelter. Without the drugs in his system he was cold to the core He couldn't stop shivering. His feet and hands hurt with the endless freezing temperatures. He couldn't eat much. Had no appetite. But he went to the shelter just to get warm for a while. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered. Why didn’t he just take off the warm coat and sit outside in the ice and snow and just wait for the elements to take him.

Winter was bad for business. No one wanted to be outside and there was little trade. He was constantly ill with a cough and a running nose. But he managed to survive winter. Just. Unlike one elderly guy he had slept near in the warehouse one night. He had fallen to sleep and never woke. Casey felt no empathy. No emotion. It only made him wonder if it would soon happen to him. When would he fall asleep and not wake up into this harsh and unforgiving world?

Casey was in Severide's thoughts every day. Over winter his worries had become worse. But he knew Casey was resourceful. Knew he was smart. But was he now? Because that was the old Casey. The old Casey wouldn't have just upped and left him. Wouldn't have done what he did. But it wasn't his fault. None of this was Casey's fault. He should have helped him. Should have done something more. But what more was there that anyone could have done? There was no point in wishing he could go back. Back to the day Casey had been taken. He had thought about it so many times. Thought about all the things he could have done differently. If only Severide had got up and gone for that run with him. None of this would have happened.

Maybe, just maybe, Casey was doing all right. Maybe he'd left for a new start. Maybe he'd kicked his addiction. Maybe he was working. Maybe he'd met someone to start a family with. Maybe he was happy. That was possible, right?

Casey was in and out of consciousness.

Lying half on and half off an old and disused mattress in the derelict warehouse. His usual squat. There was vomit dribbling down his chin. More like watery bile because he’d not eaten anything recently.

Hands were touching him. He tried to swat them away.

“Mmno… you gotta pay first…”

He tried to get away from the prying hands that roamed over his body. But he couldn’t move. He was coming down. His limbs were like lead.

He was stripped of his jeans. His only pair of boxers were torn and useless. They left him brutalised and bloody. Moaning in pain.

Then someone tried to take the only possessions he had left in the entire world. He fought the attacker off but a few fingers on his right hand were broken in the scrap. He sobbed. Fell asleep clutching the swollen digits. Along with the miniature halligan. At least he had managed to keep it. That and his CFD badge. He couldn't bear to lose that. And besides, no one could find out who he really was.

After that he couldn't work for days. He strapped the fingers tightly but the injury was agonising. Then he went into withdrawal. Shaking. Seizing. Retching. Vomiting. It got so bad he nearly stole.

Nearly.

He never did steal. Not even for the drugs he needed to get through the days. He maintained some morals. Selling his body was his decision. He didn't care about his physical shell any more. He would never steal. He would never hurt another person for a high. He'd rather suffer withdrawal. And he did. More than once. He stayed under the radar. He tried to keep clear of trouble. He didn’t want anyone to discover who he was. Who he really was. Who he had been in the past. What he now did to survive. No. It wasn’t to survive. He wasn’t trying to survive. He was just stuck. Stuck in the torment of living.

He was actually relieved when his dealer used him. He felt sane again. Just for a short while. That high. That euphoria. The clarity he felt after the hit before the comedown. Before the cravings kicked in again. He walked the streets under the stars. Stumbling every so often, coughing until he was almost sick. He knew the city well now. He'd find somewhere to sit and write. Free from torment. At least for a short time.

He got sick. He’d been sick before but not this. This was different. Permanent. It had been inevitable. Inescapable. Unprotected sex. Dirty needles. He was high risk. And no one ever would know the full extent of his illness until he was lying cold on a metal slab in the morgue.

His shoes were stolen one night whilst he slept. Along with a small amount of spare money he had hidden in one of them. In a stupor he was unable to fight back. He had lost his socks long ago. He spent a week without anything on his feet. The shelter had been full. He couldn't get a bed there for several nights and then he gave up trying. But he had to go eventually. He couldn't hold out. Couldn't work without shoes. He had already been picking glass out of the soles of his feet.

He got his first good night's rest for a long time. Warm and comfortable. Not much safer than out on the streets but it was a bed. He could take a shower and get cleaned up. Even wash some of his clothes. He came away with a sturdy pair of baseball sneakers. And some boxers and socks. Those would keep him going for a while. They had given him all the usual advice. Tried to help him. Steer him towards rehab. But he was beyond help. Had been for so long now. He knew there were others who would benefit more from the limited resources than he ever would.

Casey had hit rock bottom. He led a cop behind a dumpster. Needed to give him the blow job of his life. Everything depended on it. He didn't usually care about his client's pleasure but he had to make damn sure this cop was satisfied. And all because he had threatened Casey with a trip to the local precinct for soliciting. That meant background checks. Fingerprinting. DNA swabs. No one could ever find out who he was. No one could ever know what had happened to him. What he had let happen to himself. He couldn't compromise the CFD. Ever. What a damn story that would make. Front page news. A distinguished firefighter. A decorated officer on the streets. Whoring himself to anyone and everyone. Just for a fix. He couldn't risk that. He couldn't risk being identified for the sake of everyone in his past life. So he gave to best damn blow job of his life. He tried to hold back the tears as he worked. Never let them see you cry. Never.

As the cop grunted and came in his mouth. Casey swallowed the slightly salty, warm fluid. He swallowed. Then the vice like grip on his head slackened off a little. The man moaned in pleasure, swearing as he pulled out from Casey's aching jaw.

He patted his unkempt blond hair.

Patted him.

As if he was patting a pet dog that had performed a trick for a titbit.

“You could give my wife a lesson or two. The prude…” the paunchy sixty-something old cop breathed.

The cop zipped up his pants and strode off. Casey stayed on his bruised knees. Gagging at the rancid taste in his mouth. But he didn't throw up. He couldn't. He hadn’t eaten a scrap of food for days.

Then he broke down.

This wasn't the worst thing that had happened to him on the streets. Not by far. He had developed a thick skin. But this. This had torn him apart. He couldn't hold it in. Couldn't stop the wracking sobs that took hold. When he eventually got inside he collapsed at the top of the concrete staircase.

Casey had stepped in and tried to break up a fight at the shelter one evening. Instinct more than anything. He would have come out on the losing side if security hadn't intervened. Casey would have been kicked out and banned if the volunteer hadn't spoken up for him, explained that he had been trying to protect her. All this over no beds. Every night they had to turn people away. That night the trouble had started with the two men in front of Casey in the line. Fighting over the last bed. Threatening her if both of them didn’t get one.

After everything had calmed down she'd led Casey to a small office. Insistently. Calmly. She didn’t miss the way he avoided eye contact. Didn't miss the trembling. Or the nervous scratching at his arm. And the involuntary and defined head twitch. He was coming down. And now he was bloody and sore too. She sat him down and took the first aid kit from a shelf. He grew nervous when she took his coat from the chair. Pulling his things from the pockets so it could be washed. She fetched him some fresh clothing to change into so she could get the others all washed along with the coat. How fragile he seemed under all the layers he wore. As she saw to his wounds he flinched at her touch. He didn't speak or even look her in the eye. Despite her kind, soft voice, and gentle touch. She got him some food but he declined the food even though she tried to encourage him to eat.

She wondered who he was as she passed him a cup of water. She recognised him of course. He was a regular at the shelter. She'd been there when he first turned up and had an initial assessment all those months ago. He just called himself Matt. That's all he would scribble in the sign-in book, his writing barely legible as time passed. He had always kept to himself. Until tonight. And she wasn't going to let him back onto the streets without helping him. There was so much more to him than met the eye. She knew that. She tried to talk to him as they waited for his clothes to wash and dry. She asked him about the badge that had fallen out of the leather bound diary. But he only shrugged. When she returned his clothes he thanked her. She wanted to offer more help. Wanted to tell him to come back in the morning for a shower and a few hours of comfortable sleep but she knew he wouldn’t so she just smiled at him and he went on his way.

Severide had moved out of their apartment. He couldn't bear to live in the place he had shared with Casey. He visited every shelter, every rehab centre, every free clinic in Illinois, leaving behind flyers showing Casey's photo and his own cell number. He begged them to contact him if Casey turned up. He even travelled out of state into Wisconsin and Michigan. He called the missing persons helpline every day. For something. Anything that could lead him to Casey. Chasing the cops. Chasing state hospitals. Chasing everyone he could think of. Showing photos of Casey everywhere he went. Leaving photo-flyers behind. But there were no leads. Nothing. Casey had just vanished.

Casey just kept chasing his own high. He knew he was growing sicker. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. He wondered every night if it would be his last. He wondered every time he inserted the old needle and used syringe into a vein if this time it would kill him. He’d been fading away for months. He knew his time was almost at an end and he was glad. He was glad.

He dreamt of Kelly.

His worst fear had been to end up alone. But he deserved it. He knew that.

He died alone. Alone in the cold and the rain in a darkened alleyway by the warehouse where he slept. He hadn’t made it back inside. He died alone. Sitting against the wall. Head bowed as if asleep. The stars and the bright moon above him among the rain clouds. Dreaming of the past. Dreaming of his Kelly.

He died alone.

But he was released from the torment that his life had become.

Severide arrived in the city almost twenty-four hours after Casey’s body had been discovered by a couple of street workers. They’d been too late to save him. Casey had been long gone.

The city morgue was cold. Impersonal. Clinical. Sterile. They took him over to a metal table. A large perfectly white sheet was draped over a body. In his heart he knew it was Casey. He knew that.

“Ready?”

Severide just nodded. Staring at the shape the body made under the sheet. Then it was pulled back a short way.

Casey.

Cold and dead.

It was unmistakably him.

Cold and dead.

Casey.

His Casey.

“Here's everything he had on him.”

The man handed him a bag.

“I’ll leave you with him for now.”

Severide stared at the body in front on him. Emaciated. Ill. Scruffy stubble and hair. He could never remember him being so small and thin. So fragile looking. There was fresh cut on his jawline and upper lip. His skin was ashen. Cold. His eyes were sunken. Bruised. His body was discoloured. Scarred. Recent scars. Scars that Severide had never seen. Scars he had never traced as they lay in bed together.

Casey’s body was a ghost of its former self.

Severide pulled the sheet back a little more. He took Casey's cold nerveless hand. He saw how it was almost disfigured. He bowed his head and raised the hand to his own warm lips.

“Rest easy.”

That was all he could say.

He just held Casey's hand. He didn’t want to let it go. Ever. But it was too late.

It felt like all the time in the world as he stood there but at the same time it felt like it was only just a moment.

The morgue attendant returned.  
  
“How did he die? Did he OD?”

“No.”

Severide looked at the track marks on Casey's arms through a blur of unshed tears. “He didn’t...”

“He was very sick. Living the way he did. All the abuse and drugs. He wouldn't have survived very long like that.”

“Was he in pain?”

“No. He would have just fallen asleep and not woken up. You wouldn’t have been able to do anything. I’m very sorry.”

Severide did something he never thought he would have to do in his whole lifetime. He arranged for Casey's body to be brought back home. Home. Back to the place he had grown up. His home. Severide stayed in a motel room. Haunted by the clear bag of things that had been handed to him at the morgue. It sat in the corner of the room while he made phone calls.

Boden. Shay. Casey's sister.

He was sobbing. Shaking.

He tipped the contents of the bag onto the bed. Casey's clothes and possessions tumbled out.  
  
Severide felt shocked there were so few things. There should have been more. Something more significant. That man. That amazing man surely couldn't have left this earth leaving so little behind. But really he knew Casey left so much more behind than a few personal items. He was so involved in people's lives. No one whose life he had touched would ever forget him. They may not remember his name but they would remember the person. He saved lives. So many lives. But he couldn't save his own life. No one could have saved him

Severide stayed in the city until he had confirmation that Casey's body would be moved. He didn’t want Casey to be alone in this city, not now that he had found him. He spent eighteen hours alone in his motel room. But he wasn’t alone. Not really. He’d found Casey’s leather bound diary. He ran his fingers over the miniature halligan as he contemplated opening up the pages. Imagining Casey's touch. His hands. He smiled at the CFD badge as he held it. Casey had kept it. For some reason he was glad of that.

After some time he opened the leather bound diary. He was surprised to see that the first entry was addressed to him. He shouldn't have been surprised. If Casey had wanted to talk to anyone it would have been him. Severide knew that. What they had was special. Severide knew Casey better than anyone else in the world.

Casey's words on the page turned into his voice in Severide’s head as he read on. At points he had to stop. Crack open a window. Get some air.

‘You'd have been ashamed of me today... the stuff I've done...’

“I could never be ashamed of you.”

He said it out loud. It was important to him that Casey knew he could never be ashamed of him. Important to him that Casey knew he understood. He didn’t judge him. There was no bitterness. No accusations. He no longer held hope or wished that things could have been different. Even after reading some of the horrors in the leather bound diary. Even after seeing Casey’s body and mind deteriorate in the words written on the fragile pages. By the end Severide struggled to read his writing. The time gaps in the entries alarmed him. His imagination had gone into overdrive thinking what could have happened to cause him to stop writing.

‘You couldn’t have done anything. I just hope you’re happy. You have to be happy. I hope you moved on. I know you won’t forget about me but I know you’ll get over me. I’ll just be a memory inside your head and I’m happy with that…’

Severide still felt guilty that he couldn’t save him until he finished reading through Casey’s diary. There was one last note. It was neater than the last half of the diary, every letter had been carefully marked down as if he knew it would be the last thing he ever said.

‘I did love you. I do love you but I can’t ever come back. I’m not the same person but you are. You need to live your life. It’s not about me. It’s you. You have to live.’

Lieutenant Matthew Casey was buried in Chicago with full honours. He was a decorated officer. A true hero.

Boden and Severide made sure it had been done.

It was the very least he deserved.


End file.
